


The Frightened Ones

by Bolkon_skies



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Author’s slightly biased opinion on Napoleon, M/M, Modern AU but with the same issues for rich people, Non-Linear Narrative, Trans Characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-25 17:08:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18578854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bolkon_skies/pseuds/Bolkon_skies
Summary: It all starts when Marya asks him to take care of her flower shop. Luckily, this is not, as far as he is concerned, a nineteen century Russian novel.(That part where he was sick, he’ll admit, was a bit nineteen century. But the next day was definitely normal.)





	The Frightened Ones

**Author's Note:**

> If happymango sees this I just want to say: thank you! Comments are extremely treasured and it really helped me to continue developing these ridiculous concepts.

 

 

> _A while back, if I remember right, my life was one long party where all hearts were open wide, where all wines kept flowing._
> 
> _One night, I sat Beauty down on my lap.—And I found her galling.—And I roughed her up._
> 
> _I armed myself against justice._
> 
>  

To be absolutely clear, if he had anything else to do- visiting Rome, going to war, visiting Rome while going to war- he wouldn’t be there.

He thought about a lot of places to go— to leave. There was nowhere to go but elsewhere, there was nowhere to hide but _somewhere else_.

“Please, brother,” Marya pleaded, her eyes always shining so beautifully. “I can’t take care of him with my hands full.”

A pang of guilt washed over him. He’d been neglecting his duty as a father and a brother for a— girl. His face grimaced slightly, but nothing more. Then he felt even worse.

 _I’m sorry._ “What do you need?” 

Marya’s eyes were large and kind. “My flower shop,” she says, “can you give a hand there? Father is ill today, and I have to clean the boy’s room.”

“There are servants for that,” he said, the knife inside twisting further.

He should be doing this. He should be doing all this. Lise’s accusatory eyes, bright and candle-like.

“Will your girlfriend be there?” He asked quietly. Marya’s tears, Marya’s eyes when she introduced her was something he cherished and will share with absolutely no one. “Because as much as I wouldn’t mind to be with her, I doubt she would be comfortable with me.”

“Sonya does not hate you, brother, she’s only a little— afraid,” she says softly, her cheeks dusted pink. Andrei does not dwell on the words. “She says she will be glad to help me to take care of the boy while I look after Father.”

Andrei says, unblinking, “Of course,” then, “of course.”

Sonya was the little girl beside— _her_. Her cousin, he remembers, when he would visit the Rostovs ever so often.

She looked sorry. Andrei cannot bear pity, but he can tolerate blame, so he says, “I don’t promise that I won’t burn a jonquil or two.” 

Marya’s face lighted up with a small smile. He looked away. “I don’t like jonquils very much, but if you do, you’ll be forced to plant them all over again.”

“Plant them?”

“Oh,” she said lightly, “you didn’t know?”

 

* * *

 

The flower shop was, to be fair to Marya, a garden.

A rich person’s fancy, Andrei can that because he was that rich person’s sibling, but a harmless one. A lovely one, since he was, after all, her brother.

She never buy them; she cultivated them from the seeds, that’s why it needed to be maintained every ten minutes. He didn’t even have time to make up the latin names and the instructions when the door bell rang.

It was late, and from what he can hear, it was pouring rain. Actually, as he looked up up to the clock buried in a pile of succulents, he realised that it was already closing time.

A good half an hour after closing time.

The door crackled. The sound of the rain made everything louder. “Hi,” a small voice. “Do you have jonquils? Yellow ones?”

Andrei, ever the talkative person, replied, “Sorry, we’re closed.” The man seemed to have blushed when he turns around fully when he’s not messing with the blue roses, but it was dark, and he probably really needed glasses anyway.

“You can come here tomorrow,” he added, “we are open from nine to ten.” 

Silence stretched. The man, damped from head to toe, was a large bespectacled man with a large forehead, and about a head taller than him. He supposed he can kill him with one hand, but the man’s kind eyes suggested nothing about murderous intent for people; only for puppy-killers, which were definitely not people. 

“I-“ the man opened his mouth, closed it. “I can come another time.”

Andrei sighed softly. He reached the new package of business card and handed one to him. “Will you be able to come by tomorrow? Tell me what you need and I’ll prepare it so you can pick it up tomorrow.”

The man shifted his weight. “Sorry- it is too much trouble?”

“No, no,” he said, and wanted, suddenly, to win this costumer for Marya, to make himself useful for once. “Just come tomorrow whenever you want. You said jonquils? How many?”

As he wrote down the order, he can’t help but feel curious. That man looked younger than him. It was probably for his partner or something of that kind. His large glistening eyes made it clear to him that it was important.

“Thank you,” the man smiled a little more easily after Andrei’s painful try to make conversation. It wasn’t mockery, but Andrei haven’t known anything else. “You can order it for Pierre. My name is Pierre.” 

“Good,” he said, then a second too late, “oh- and, uh, I’m Andrei. Andrei Bolkonsky.”

He didn’t have to say his full name. He said it anyway. He also, among other things, wanted to die by digging a hole and bury himself alive.

“Fellow Russians,” Pierre exclaimed, “what makes you in Lyon?”

“Wanted to know more about our common foe before heading to battle,” he smiled, feeling the shame from earlier tingling his cheek. His face just can’t seem to be honest.All more’s the pity.

Pierre seemed to more than happy to indulge in his joke. “Not a Napoleon fan, I see.”

“You are?”

“I, uh, am. Was. I don’t know.”

“Not to be cruel, my dear Pierre, but that’s an offence to yourself and the notion of your mind. Anyone— anything is better. The sky, for example,” he said, unfortunately with some emotions, “is worth more than his existence could ever try be.”

Pierre laughed. When he laughed, his whole body shook with jubilation. “We should definitely talk some more,” he said, putting back his hat and coat, “another time, M. Bolkonsky.”

“Pierre,” he said, felt even more horrible to gave away his family name, “take the umbrella.”

Pierre shook his head. “Aren’t you going home soon?”

“I have another one,” he lied, and for the first time in a long while, he was glad of it. “Take it, the water cannot make you practice photosynthesis anyway.”

Pierre hesitated, then smiled. “Thank you,” he says. “I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”

It was a promise, he knew, as the thunder-light clears for a moment Pierre’s face, red and smiling as he would, Andrei assumed, to the person he bought the flowers for.

 

* * *

 

He went back home with a fever.

Marya was not pleased. And he wanted to say sorry, I met someone who need the umbrella more than me, I will take of myself, but instead, he coaxed out: “Is Father well rested?”

Marya threaded her hands together. “He just slept- Andrei, are you well? Do you need me-“

“I don’t,” he snapped, then flinched. “Marya, go to sleep,” he said, softly this time. “You’ve been up since six.” 

“But-“

“Remember when the boy was sick and we have to take care of him for several nights?” Marya nods. “You turned sick the day after he recovered. Just go to sleep and don’t make this worse, Marya. It’s just a cold.” 

Marya’s lips are pressed together. “Then- I’ll leave the medications here, An—drei.” She hesitated at the name. He can’t blame her. “Good night.”

“Thank you,” he says, meaning it. “You too, princess.” 

Her eyes lightened in recognition at the old nickname. They used to call each other princesses, and pretended to be Anastasia's sisters.

When the door finally, blessedly shut with a soft click, he let out the coughs that were trying to break free since she entered the room. He was quiet, and he was glad of it. His eyes reached for the moon without thinking, and suddenly remembering what the moon stood for, he jerked his head to the pillow and buried himself in blankets.

This was suspiciously pathetic, he thought. He was, after all, not a protagonist in Russian novel. He was a rich person in a foreign land, trying to make flowers un-dead for a realistic amount of time for other rich people to buy.

This was hardly Russian novel length, and the action, he presumed, anticlimactic.

 

* * *

 

That part where he was sick, he’ll admit, was a bit nineteen century. But the next day was definitely normal.

Like how he prepared a ridiculous amount of jonquils for a stranger— for _Pierre_ and waited for an entire day.

He would read, as he always did, some Verlaine and Rimbaud that he bought from home, but costumers were so terribly, consistently not there that he finished them all and now hesitated if he should just read the book that’s been lying on the shop’s shelf that had a cover of a naked man on a horse in order to kill time.

At seven o’clock, he was ready to burn them all (Marya won’t mind, and he will replant them after, he promised), when the familiar bell rang. Andrei was not ashamed to admit that he almost fell down from the chair. Not at all.

(He did _not_ fell down from the chair, in his defence.)

Pierre looked much better without the damp forehead and his coat from yesterday. In fact, he was quite... well-dressed. And powdered. And well-made. Oh god.

Andrei looked away. I waited for you for a whole day. Isn’t it weirdly disappointing that you have arrived? Where is the part I screamed in agony to the wind and vowed my revenge?

“Hi,” he greeted.

“Hi,” Pierre said, embarrassed. He rubbed his neck. “Sorry. I hope I am not too late.”

Andrei pretended to look at the clock. “Two hours before closing. Pretty good, as record goes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine-“ he said, bringing the bouquet that he had prepared to the counter. “So, credit card or cash?”

Pierre grimaced. “Are one hundred bills accepted?”

He stared. “Sure,” he said, “since your request doesn’t sound patronising. I assume it was a genuine question.”

“Of course,” Pierre answered with a small voice. “Sorry, I’m not good with—“ he gestured wildly, “with those things.”

Andrei understood. He didn’t want to. “It’s okay. Not your fault if you’re loaded.”

Pierre winced, “Those—flowers. Thank you.”

He shook his head, tried his best to smile. “You’re welcome.”

He didn’t say, you’re welcome to come by again, he couldn’t say anything but mouthed an awkward goodbye. He couldn’t say a lot of things, he realised.

The man looked back once, and with his arms full of jonquils, went out of the shop, ready to embrace whatever lover that he reserved them for.

Andrei’s eyes were kept at the counter, looking at the extra twenty euros in the tip bin. He resisted the urge to shudder.

 

* * *

 

When he was sixteen, he went to see a therapist without telling anyone. 

He was close to his sister to the age of seven, when their mother died. It was pathetic, so he said nothing. There was no shame in his sadness, but neither was there pity. It was wrong, to feel it, to embrace it. It was all wrong. He was wrong.

It was unfair to Lise, when he first met her. He was young, charming, woman. He was deceitful without ever wanting to. When he was twenty-three when he realised that everything was wrong with him, so he did nothing when Father threw insults to Marya, and so he couldn’t cry at Lise’s deathbed, their adopted son beside her, screaming and crying as if trying to point out the irony.

He would call Marya princess, again and again, just to make her believe that he was still the same from their princess game at seven years old, dancing and playing as Russia’s kings and queens, Alexander in the battlefield, giving out orders that couldn’t reach the soldiers that were too busy dying in the mud. 

Lise was a lovely woman. Natasha too. It was their soul that he loved, through Lise’s expressive frown and Natasha’s singing voice, telling the most pointless stories— he understood. The most important things about him were other people.

When he was thirty-three, he went to see another therapist without telling anyone. He changed- still wrong - but not wrongly shaped anymore. He didn’t tell Father. He didn’t think that he would notice.

Everything he did scream _wrong, wrong, wrong_. And when he cancelled his engagement to Natasha was the first time it didn’t rang in his head like a mantra.

It only made him very, very sad. Not that it wasn’t wrong too.

 

* * *

 

Kutuzov was, after all his years in the army, a pain in the ass.

“My son,” he said, laying a hand on his arm, “I thought you were dead, you know that? What a surprise to find you here!” Then with an embrace, he kissed his two cheeks. Andrei saw that he adapted to the French manners, if only the greeting part.

“Your tone suggests that you wish I were,” he muttered darkly, but can’t help but feel the same spark of affection running through him. He liked old men, with capable hands, calling him son. “Glad to see you too, general.”

“Ah! Ah! None of these superfluous talks, my son!” He exclaimed, swinging an arm around his shoulder. “What are you doing now, retiring with a happy wife? You are too young- way too young! At your age I was still a colonel! My boy- do come back to us. We’ve been missing you.”

Andrei rolled his eyes. Kutuzov laughed. “Alright,” he conceded, “not all of them. But you’re a good fellow, and armies need more good fellows like you.”

“Like me,” he repeated, quite stupidly.

The general looked a little bored. He always did after awhile. Everyone did, actually. “My boy,” he continued, “I hope for the best,” he said, “for you.”

Andrei looked up at him with grateful eyes. “Do you need some flowers? For Madame Kutuzov?” He asked.

Kutuzov blinked, then burst out laughing. “Of course! From the best. I assume you can do that?”

Andrei kissed him goodbye, and did exactly what his ex-commander ordered for him.

 

* * *

 

Pierre came back, much to his surprise.

Actually, sometimes he would even bring some friends- sometimes other Russians that looked rich and famous and that Andrei unfortunately know, but sometimes he came along, to buy other jonquils. Andrei never figured out whom they were for, but he was not the one to ask.

Pierre, however, did ask. He asked a lot. 

“I think it unfair that some are having more than others,” Pierre said one day, when Andrei was wrapping up his order. “I believe we should free people from poverty.” 

“We? By giving them money?” Andrei said, not looking up from the red ribbons. Make a pretty knot, Andrei. “It’s not going to work.”

“Why not?” Pierre said, excited. Andrei never answered his questions with more than three words. “I’m not a blind idealist, M. Bolkonsky- but I do believe in Christian values- to give, to share- why is that not good? How is that not noble?” 

Andrei frowned. It was not a discussion he wanted to have with anyone. Let alone this bright-eyed young man with bulk shoulders and small glasses. “Because you’re not god. Being noble is none of your business. Giving up your money? It’s not your money that you’re giving, Pierre, it’s what society has given you.” His mouth felt dry, and he almost (unfortunately) didn’t continued, “All is determined by a predisposed sets of choices and you’re a fool to think that we matter.” 

And Pierre- oh, Pierre- was frowning. Listening. When was the last time someone did? “Are you saying that giving back to society isn’t good?”

“I’m saying that you don’t understand the system. I’m saying that the person who might receive the money don’t know how to use it. If he- for example, receives your money and use it for evil. What do you think then?”

“Surely there will be good people-“

“Of course,” he said, lips tight. “Of course there will be.” 

“I think humanity is fundamentally good,” Pierre’s face was flushed with excitement, and the lower muscle on his left cheek twitching.

“It doesn’t matter if it is or not,” he said, a little agitated. This was not good. This was useless. He cut the ribbons too long. “You’ll be giving money to make yourself feel good. And yet you do not know what freeing mean. You can’t take care of humanity like you would care for glory or duty- you can’t do that by throwing money down the streets.”

Pierre’s voice grew louder, his face red. “I think you’re just a pessimist.”

“I—“ Andrei started again, words coming in his head like waves, closed it. Lise’s accusatory eyes: _Why are you like this_. “It doesn’t matter. Do as you wish.”

“M. Bolkonsky-“

He handed him the flowers. Pierre was silent.

The jonquils were as bright and yellow like the first ones he gave to Pierre- and Pierre, being a bright young man, smiled weakly to him and went back to his lover.

Andrei can’t help but think that he was going to be back, soon, and his heart beat the same beats of his tailoring scissors. It was wrong.

 

* * *

 

Marya’s eyes reminded him of Father’s, sometimes. And if she would have shadows of the old Bolkonsky, then he would too, growing like his image. He knew he had never wanted to be his Mother, or anyone else’s.

Sometimes Father would ask Marya when he’d have a son. When Marya was hesitating, or anxiously looking at him with pursued lips, he would say, Father, you forgot, I am your mistress’s child. 

Marya would then close her eyes, her hands clasped together tight, as if in prayer. Father would ask him about Madame Bourienne, then. And Andrei wanted to bring Sonya here, to comfort his poor, poor sister, caught in this theatre with no acts to begin with, endless and bourgeois; boring.

He would also hate her, sometimes.

“I see that you’re happy, Andrei,” Marya said quietly. “The flower business is going well?”

“Why would you say that?” He answered, a little choked, and trying very hard not to be.

“You smiled more,” she said, her plain features brightened by her sparkling eyes. “You talked more at the dinner table. You even played with the boy-“

“These are my duties,” he said, “as a father and a brother.”

Marya faltered, and blushing with red blotches on her face, she faltered like a flower would wither under too much sun. She was beautiful, he thought. Her eyes lighting her plain features on sight.

“Oh,” she said quickly. “Sorry, I have thought something good has happened, maybe you met someone-“

“No,” he answered. “There’s no one. There’s only so much to do, princess. I have smile for the clients, you see,” he laughs, “to scare them away.”

 

* * *

 

The thing was, he did laugh, and somehow, it didn’t scare him away. 

Pierre kept coming back, buying jonquils. He would talk about historical determinism, the weather, and how Russian politics are affecting French policies. Andrei let himself be drowsed by the soft-spoken words and laughed at some of them. Pierre would pause at that, sometimes, and fell into a silence that was neither oppressive or comfortable. His eyes would dart away, and Andrei couldn’t help but think that his laughter was ugly. It was. 

“Who are you buying these for anyway?” He asked one day, at a brief moment of courage and stupidity- “your spouse?”

Pierre was sitting on a chair, his large body looking warm and soft, fumbling with some petals. Andrei flushed. Pierre laughed. “My spouse is rather occupied with other people, you see. I don’t think she’ll have the time to care for some flowers.” 

“Oh,” Andrei said. The smell of flowers flooded his senses, and before he knew it, Pierre was giving him the bouquet of jonquils he was holding in his hand a second ago.

“We are planning the divorce,” Pierre answered uneasily. “The first time I came it was for my father’s funeral.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Andrei breathed out. Pierre shook his head, winced. His voice softened. “I assume you liked the jonquils, then? I mean, you basically came here every day since—“

His eyes were earnest. “Yes,” Pierre said, his grey eyes searching- what? “I like them a lot.”

“Yeah—-“ he hesitated, then, “yeah. Me too.”

And he buried his face in the bouquet. Pierre’s laughter was warm and bright and too, too sweet.

* * *

 

Andrei never stopped reaching for the sky.

It was after he got hit by a bullet on his left shoulder. His head pounding, his vision blurring and concentrating on the clear, infinite sky.Zooming in, zooming out. Soldiers running in tatters. What campaign was he participating to? He, lying down, glass cutting his cheek, and the sky. All around him was deception, all around was deserted hope, except that clear, infinite sky.

He had never stopped reaching for it ever since. Yet his arms never pitched high, and his eyes never looking up. His mind breaking and reforming that blue, (clear, clear blue), and the white (infinite, infinitely white), and in his mind’s eye, he never stopped reaching for it.

He never stopped.

 

* * *

Pierre confessed to him: “I think I’m in love.”

Andrei was writing the receipts and orders for the upcoming season. He broke his pencil, lead in half. “That’s wonderful,” he said. “Your wife— your _ex_ -wife— is fine by that?”

Pierre was an anxious person, Andrei realised it at his third visit when he accidentally broke a vase and reacted as if he had singlehandedly started a world war. His eyes darted from Andrei to the wall; back and forth. He rubs his neck sheepishly. “Yeah,” he stuttered, “I think she’s okay with it.”

“Good, then,” was all he said. All he could say. He slipped out, after a moment, “Who is it?”

Pierre smiled a little. The smile he had every time he felt self-conscious. The smile he had every time he wanted to make Andrei feel like he was in love. “She’s- I don’t know how to describe it- she’s the loveliest creature I have ever seen. Everything seems so dull without her— you know what I mean?”

“I know,” he said, not knowing what to say except the truth.

“I cannot help but loving her,” he admitted with a flush high on his cheek. “Our family knew each other since we were kids- and Natasha- she was ill last month- I went there to check on her. I can’t believe someone can be more lovely, how anyone can hurt her in any way, especially just by looking at her you can see all the—“, he scoffs. “Sorry, it must all be nonsense to you- I should,” he stopped. “I should go— Andrei? Are you okay?” 

It was anticlimactic, he must stress, to simply falter, and not faint. “Her name—“

“Ah, Natasha?”

The lost princess of Russia, Marya used to call her that with a strained smile. Everything is so beautiful about her. Everything; her soul. “And you love her?” Andrei asked. They may not be the same person. They can bear the same name and it would make sense. Some kind of law in a sick universe. Everyone falls in love with Natasha.

Pierre said, bright eyed and with infinite tenderness: “Is there anything more grand?”

Andrei did not have the strength to reply that yes, there was. To live for oneself. To not hurt anyone except your own life. For all that was grand and sublime, living without a care, living without connection, living without others’ bad, hurtful, horrid lives. That was grand. And yet, Andrei couldn’t say. 

Pierre was young. 

“No,” he said, as any elder friend would have whispered with a soft regret tinging in their voice, “no. I suppose there’s not.” 

And it wasn’t wrong to say that, for once.

 

 


End file.
